


The Best Medicine

by Lizzy0305



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Sickfic, 中文翻译 | Translation in Chinese
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-22
Updated: 2012-08-25
Packaged: 2017-11-12 16:38:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/493416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lizzy0305/pseuds/Lizzy0305
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock catches some kind of heavy illness, but John stays with him during his suffering and helps him through it. Sherlock, of course, won't be ungrateful...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Before you go on, please note that I'm not a doctor, I'm just studying tourism and hotel management, so this illness Sherlock has, it's not real. I made it up. It's almost like the flu, but not really.
> 
> Chinese translation of The Best Medicine by Qiao Jin can be found at www.mtslash.com/viewthread.php?tid=24140 or another translation at http://doctective.com/archiver/?tid-205-page-2.html

 

“Sherlock, you are sick. You have to stay in bed.” John shouted as he saw the detective putting on his coat.

“Says who? I won't stay in bed. It’s dull. I have a case.” Sherlock answered, knotting his scarf.

“Says your doctor. And don’t worry about the case, Lestrade will solve it, you gave them enough help.”

“You can't be serious, John. Lestrade? Solving a case? He couldn’t even catch a criminal if they stood right in front of his eyes. I won't let him screw this up for me.” Came the detective’s impatient voice from the doorframe.”

“Sherlock!” John yelled in vain. The door had already closed behind the black coated man. “Damn you, Sherlock!” He said, grabbing his own jacket.

 

 

“Satisfied now?” They had left that morning and since then Sherlock’s condition had only gotten worse. John could tell he had a fever just by looking at him.

“Definitely. I caught a killer.” Sherlock smiled, pride in his voice.

“You know you have a fever, right?” John asked, driving Sherlock to his room.

“You don’t say...”

“You have to lay down, Sherlock. This is going to get worse.”

“I’m not going to stay in bed for days, stop saying that! I feel fine.”

“Sherlock, for god’s sake! You have fever. You were running all around London, while you had a _fever_!”

“John, I fee- Whoa!” Sherlock turned around to face the doctor but he lost his balance. He almost fell to the floor but John held him steady.

“You don’t feel fine, Sherlock. Go to bed.” He pointed at the mentioned place.

“I...” Sherlock tried to argue.

“You. To bed. _Now_!” John finished the conversation.

 

 

“So what’s wrong with me?” Sherlock asked, finally lying in bed. Even if he tried to deny it, John saw his flushed cheeks, his sweating forehead and the goose-bumps all over his arms.

“Does this hurt?” The doctor asked, moving Sherlock’s wrist around.

“No.”

“Sherlock...” John said warily. _He doesn’t even look like himself,_ he thought as he looked at the faint, gray eyes.

“A bit...”

“Strip to the waist and lay down.” He ordered. Sherlock gave him an annoyed look but obeyed. Throwing his shirt to the floor, he slid down on the bed and leaned back. John bent over him, putting his stethoscope to the warm skin. Sherlock hissed as the cold metal touched his bare chest.

“Deep breath. Again. Does it hurt?”

Sherlock just nodded.

“How is your head?”

“Bored...”

“Sherlock! Take this seriously, please!”

“I’m sorry, _Doctor_ _Watson_. My head hurts like hell.” Sherlock sighed, putting his hands under the back of his neck.

“I’ll be back in a moment, until then...” John slid a thermometer into Sherlock’s mouth. “Don’t take it out.”

 John went down to his medical bag and grabbed a few medicines. He really hoped he wasn’t right and Sherlock didn’t have the flu. However, it really looked like that. He went back to his patient. He arrived at the room as the thermometer beeped two times.

He pulled it out from between Sherlock’s lips.

102 °F.

“What’s the diagnosis, Doctor Watson? Am I going to die? Please, don’t tell me I’m going to die. I have a family I have to feed! Who will look after the little Lestrade if I go away for good?” Sherlock wasn’t able to hold back his sarcastic smile.

“Congratulations Mr. Holmes, it’s the flu. Take these pills, I’ll make you tea.”

“Oh, so I’m not going to die. What a surprise...”

“I wouldn’t bet on that. I might still kill you if you don’t swallow those pills...”

 

It was late at night. John was reading an old book in his favorite chair, tea steaming next to him. He wasn’t paying too much attention to the words, he was thinking of the sick man next door. Sherlock’s fever hadn’t fallen despite the pills. It rose to 104°F. His headache got worse, his breathing too.

He looked at the clock.

Twenty minutes.

He last checked on him twenty minutes ago. Sherlock was sleeping then but who knows, maybe he was up now, needing something. He stood up and walked to the door. He opened it slowly, making as little noise as possible.

When he first looked at him, he thought he was sleeping but then he heard his voice. The detective was whining silently, he lay on his side, hunching himself up, arm around his waist, breathing really hard. John ran to him, leaning to the bed.

“Sherlock! Sherlock, do you hear me?” The answer was only a slight nod. He saw that Sherlock’s eyes were closed tightly.

“Sherlock, talk to me, can you tell me what’s causing you the pain?” The doctor asked, concerned. With both his hands, he tried to hold steady the shaking body.

“Lungs...c-can't breathe...” Sherlock rattled.

“Alright, Sherlock, listen to me, I know it hurts, but you have to sit up. I’ll help you, come on Sherlock.” John pulled him up. When he tried to stand up, he felt Sherlock’s fists clench into his shirt

“D-don’t...go...” Came a whisper right next to his ear.

“It’s ok, Sherlock. I won't go away. I will sit behind you, but you have to let me go first.”

When he felt the fingers loosen he stood up quickly and sat behind Sherlock.  Pulling him to his chest he started murmuring into Sherlock’s ear.

“I’m here, Sherlock. Now breathe with me. Come on, in and now out, slow, deep breathes, do it, Sherlock.”

His arms went around Sherlock, he held him from behind. As they breathed he felt Sherlock’s pulse slow, his breathing became smooth. Sherlock, stretching himself out between the doctor’s legs, threw his head back to John’s shoulder. He was breathing normally again.

“Are you better?” John’s voice was still low as he reached out for a glass of water.

“Much...” He cleared his throat. “Thanks...” Sherlock mumbled taking the glass. “You can go now, I’m sure you’re tired.”

John climbed out from behind him but didn’t leave the room.

“I’m not tired.” John lied easily. “I’m concerned about this fever. The seizures are not uncommon things but they are rare in a healthy, grown man, they’re rather expected in children and old men. You took the pills I gave you, right? Those should help...” He looked out of the windows, considering the possibilities. “I think you should take a cold shower, Sherlock. That would maybe help your fever fall.”

Sherlock gave him a surprised look.

“John, it’s 3am. You really think I should have a cold shower, _now_?”

“Yes. You have a fever because your immune system wants to kill the virus with heat. But, clearly, it’s not working; and if your system is exposed to this much body heat for too long that causes more trouble than help.”

Sherlock nodded, putting his feet to the ground. He tried to stand up but his knees trembled and he fell forward. John caught him at the last second, lifted him up, holding him for a few minutes in his caring arms.

“Come...” He said as they, grabbing onto each other, lurched towards the bathroom.

John didn’t want to switch on the lights, that would just cause Sherlock’s headache to worsen. Instead, he leaned the shaking man against the wall saying, “Stay here,” and went back to Sherlock’s room. He switched on a lamp on the nightstand which would give them enough light in the bathroom to see the shades of the subjects but wouldn’t burn out the gray eyes.

He went back to the detective. Sherlock was where he had left him, his head tilted to the side, resting against the cold tiles.

“I’ll help you...” John said, his hands at the bottom of Sherlock’s shirt.

“No!” Sherlock grabbed the hands then pushed them away from his waist, not releasing them.

“Let me...” The doctor almost begged and when Sherlock let go of his wrists they went back to the detective’s slim hips.

Pushing up the blue cloth, John’s palm was lightly touching Sherlock’s skin. As his fingertips were sliding upward, he felt how hot the other’s body was. He couldn’t help but look into the gray eyes. He was at Sherlock’s breast when the detective raised both of his arms over his head.

John felt the muscles tighten and move under his fingers. He stepped a bit closer to reach higher. He pulled the shirt over the mussed up curls and long hands then threw it to the floor. Holmes’ pale skin was shining in the dim light making a stark contrast to the dark tiles.

When he touched his pants, Sherlock groaned.

“Dear god! I can't believe this...” His voice sounded astonished.

“What?” Came the concerned but also surprised voice.

“Nothing...” Sherlock replied, sweeping away the cold fingers again. “I’ll handle this...Get out.”

“But Sherlock...?”

“Get out. Now. Leave me alone, John.”

John obeyed because Sherlock seemed determined and a bit angry, too. He closed the door behind him and waited.

 

 

Sherlock stepped naked in the shower stall, turning on the cold water. As the first few drops reached his skin, he hissed. Not so surprisingly, the cold water was _cold_. Especially on his fever heated body. All of his instincts were screaming to get out from under the icy water but he forced himself to stay.

When he thought of John who was probably standing in front of the door, his heartbeat skipped then went on faster. It wasn’t enough that most of his blood was right now not in his brain but much lower, because of the dear doctor’s caring fingers, now he was panting again. His lungs felt as if they were burning with every gulp of air and as he started breathing faster, they hurt more. Even though, when his windpipe grew narrow and the fresh air didn’t reach his lungs, he felt the flaming inside him. Freezing water was streaming over him but it couldn’t cool down the blazing fire inside.

Coughing, he bent over as if a magnet were trying to pull together his shoulders and knees.

“John...” The name was only a faint whisper.

His knees gave out and he fell to the wet ground on all fours. Nails scraped the wall, he tried to breath but he couldn’t. Cold water, still running all over his body, made him shiver; he was freezing until he felt something warm pressing at his back. The warmness surrounded him, first on his back then it was over his stomach too, then it moved to over his heart.

The strong arms made him stretch out again, powerfully pulling him back. He closed his eyes and bent back as much as he could, as much as the arms around his chest made him. The cold water, which was falling on his head wasn’t freezing anymore, but refreshing, it calmed down his nerves. A few blank minutes later, he started realizing what was around him. Rather who.

He was still kneeling in the middle of the shower stall and John was behind him again, holding him, like in the bed. A hand was across his chest, fingers digging into the soft flesh under his collarbone, another one over his stomach, pulling him close to John, holding him steady. He looked down and saw knees on both sides of him. Even in the darkness, he could tell that John’s blue jeans had become almost black from the dampness.

“It’s me, Sherlock. Don’t worry, I’m here now...” John whispered into his ear. Sherlock turned towards the sound. Closing his eyes again, he buried his head in John’s wet neckline.

“It’s okay...” John murmured as two hands gripped onto his. He started rocking slightly back and forth until Sherlock regained all of his senses.

They were under the running water for several minutes. Fortunately, there weren’t more seizures while they were there. John really hoped that Sherlock’s fever decreased from the coldness, too.

 

Thanks to the icy shower Sherlock’s fever fell to 102 °F. He was lying on his side, covering himself to the neck with the blanket. John was observing him from the bedside. He decided to stay in the room until the serious seizures elapsed. He knew that every minute mattered when Sherlock had these seizures. He had to straighten him up, making him breathe without any difficulty or else...

A weird idea came to his mind.

“Would you mind if I sat behind you?”

“What?” Sherlock cast a glance at him. “Like during the first seizure?”

“Yes.” John nodded determined.

“Why would you do that?”

“I could react faster during the possible seizure and the position would help you breathe smoother while you are sleeping. Look, I know it would be a bit unc...”

“No. I-it’s okay.” Sherlock interrupted him, sitting up.

The blanket slid down the bare chest to Sherlock’s lap. He shifted on the bed, making enough room for the doctor.

John sat behind him, hoping that Sherlock was at least wearing pants. As Sherlock made himself comfortable, he felt the boxer’s thin fabric. _Well...it’s better than nothing..._ , he thought for a moment.

“Try to sleep.” He covered both of them with the blanket then placed his hands to his sides. Sherlock nuzzled up to him, his back firmly pressed to John’s chest.

Darkness surrounded them as they lay in the bed. There was no light in the room, even the windows were darkened. John listened as his friend fell asleep, as his whole body relaxed. He couldn’t sleep, he was too tense.

Now, when Sherlock’s warm body burning from fever was pressed to his, he realized the detective was just another human being, too. It terrified him to see Sherlock in that much pain, almost crying from it. He couldn’t imagine - he didn’t even want to - what could have happened to Sherlock if he hadn’t come in the room in the first place.

It hurt him to see Sherlock this weak and fragile. Although John denied this even to himself, he thought of Sherlock as if he were some kind of hero. And it always hurts to see a hero in pain. And when that hero is also your friend it hurt much more.

The day was breaking when Sherlock’s back arched as the next seizure came. John held him to himself with one hand, straightening him out, his other went to Sherlock’s hair, caressing him, trying to calm him down.

“Sherlock, remember, breathe slowly, deeply and it’ll be over soon. Come on, Sherlock, in...” he took a deep breath himself, “...out.”

“J-john...” He heard Sherlock’s ragged breathing, and John felt as if his heart was ready to burst.

“I’m here with you, Sherlock. I’m here, right behind you... Now, breathe with me, please Sherlock, breathe.” He begged. Finally he felt Sherlock doing what he asked. His hand was over his lungs, he felt how his chest went up breath after breath and soon Sherlock was calm again, his panting stopped, and he inhaled smoothly.

“Thanks for staying with me...” Holmes murmured in a raw, husky voice.

“I’m glad you feel better...” John sighed in relief. His hand was on Sherlock’s forehead, taking his temperature. “I think you’re fever fell a bit while you were sleeping, you will be better now.”

“Will there be more...”

“Seizures? I hope not.”

“Are you comfortable?” Sherlock asked after a few silent minutes.

“What?” John replied uncomprehending.

“You were in this position all night. Aren’t you uncomfortable?” Sherlock explained.

“Oh...No, I’m fine, thanks.”

As a matter of fact, he felt very comfortable. His back was leaning against a soft pillow, his right leg tucked up and Sherlock’s head was resting on his right shoulder. It was really comfortable. They remained quiet for a few minutes until Sherlock spoke up again.

“Do you mind if I...” He asked, placing his hand on John’s right knee.

“Not at all.”

John’s left hand was lying at his side until he felt Sherlock fold his still shaking fingers around his, moving them over his own chest, like he wanted to cover himself with John’s hand. Holmes tilted his head to the left; John could feel his hot breathing against his neck.

“Sherlock...?” John’s hand was tangling in the wet curls.

“Yes?” Sherlock said, his hand seizing the doctor’s.

“Sleep well...” He whispered into the darkness.

“You too, John...”

 

 

Usually, when he woke up it was a sudden reaction. At one moment he was dreaming, the next he was laying in his bed, awake. But not this time. He was drifting into awakening, spending some time between the slight borders of dream and reality. Maybe it was because of his illness or maybe because of the tender arm folded around him and the gentle fingers caressing his hair, thumb massaging his temple. He stirred a bit, nestling more into to the warm hug and he heard John taking a deep breath right next to his ear. He turned his head to the other way, his lips gliding lightly over the doctor’s skin. The fingers stopped in his hair.

He opened up his eyes then closed them immediately. Judging by the great amount of light, it was already late in the morning. 11:10 maybe 15.

“’Morning, Sherlock. Sleep well?”

“Never better...” He answered, while his fingers, still on John’s leg, started moving. When he noticed that John stopped breathing for a brief moment, he felt his morning erection getting a bit harder.

“Are you hungry? I’ll make some breakfast.” The doctor suggested.

“Oh, yes. That would be fine.”

“Sherlock...” he heard his name hesitantly a few seconds later.

A lazy “Hmmm?” was all he was capable of.

“If you want breakfast, you have to let me go.”

“Oh...” He said, letting go of John’s arm and leg, bending over.

“Thanks.” Standing up, John stretched his body. He headed to the kitchen for a strong coffee and for breakfast.

Sherlock leaned back on the bed. He missed the presence of something hard pressing to his waist. Looked like he wasn’t the only one suffering from the morning problems.

 

 

After breakfast Sherlock went back to sleep. No matter how much he hated it, this was the best way to regain his strength. He slept through most of the afternoon; waking up at six, he went to the kitchen to eat something.

As he stepped in the room, he noticed John sleeping on the sofa. He was sitting back against the arm of the settee, one leg stretching out on the couch the other on the ground, hands on his stomach. A book, fallen to the ground – he was reading before; coffee on the table – he hadn’t wanted to sleep; the telly muted – he didn’t wanted to wake Sherlock up.

“Oh, John...” he just had to look at him and he knew John was up all night, watching over him.

Forgetting about his hunger, he went back to his room silently, not making any noise. A few minutes later, he returned with his blanket. He sat between the doctors legs again, seemed as if this had become his favorite sleeping position, but this time he made a bit of change in the pose. Covering themselves with the blanket, he laid down on his stomach now, his head resting over John’s heart, he clearly heard his heartbeats, his abdomen pressed to John’s groin. He slid his hand up to John’s shoulder, and with the other he held John’s hand. He really hoped his nuzzling wouldn’t wake up the tired doctor.

After ten minutes, listening to the rhythmic heartbeats, he was sleeping again, deeply lost in the fields of dreams.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first chapter was the plot. This... this is pure porn my dear friends. Pure porn.  
> Hope you don't mind ;)

Three days passed by until Sherlock was fine; his body temperature became normal, his headache was gone as well. _The antibiotics and Mrs. Hudson’s chicken soup cured him quickly,_ John thought smiling, as he was lying in his bed. He didn’t need to stay with Sherlock during the night anymore, the seizures never came back.

Sherlock’s old, perpetually bored side returned so now he could listen to his complaining all day long after he walked out of his own room. But he was glad about that; it was good to hear Sherlock grumble about how boring it was to sit in the bed, instead of catching criminals, and yell about why John couldn’t give him the gun, because a sad face would be a nice companion to the smiling one. He only smiled even when Sherlock threw his pillow at him when he tried to tuck the stubborn detective in bed. He was happy to see his old self again, and not that fragile, sick, pale Sherlock. In the bright morning light, he thought back to the past few days.

After that terrible night, he only had a few peaceful hours of sleep, covering himself with Holmes, feeling and listening to his still breathing. He woke up about 11am. Half-awake, he started playing with the soft curls, not even realizing what he was doing. As Sherlock’s lips accidently touched his skin and his fingers caressed his leg, inappropriate thoughts formed in his mind, and his innocent morning erection became something more like a hard-as-steel-ready-to-fuck-you kind of erection. Which was not actually right, considering that the person between his legs was his _male friend_ , who was still fairly _sick_ at that moment. So he ran away, using breakfast as a good alibi.

When he woke up on the couch that afternoon he was surprised to notice that, first of all, he fell asleep and secondly, that he was breathing a bit harder, like something heavy was on his chest. First, he thought that he had caught the illness from Sherlock, but then, opening his eyes, he realized that the detective was lying _on him_ , using him as his own pillow. His shocked movement must have woken up Sherlock as well, because he shifted sleepily, digging his fingernails onto his skin at his shoulder and pushed his hips a bit down, rubbing it right against John’s hardening groin. Lolling his head back, he swallowed a harsh groan and tried to relax. Sherlock moved again, and as John looked down, his gaze met with a pair of mesmerizing gray eyes. Then he fell off the settee in sheer shock...

He turned over to his stomach, he wanted to calm down his throbbing erection but he didn’t succeed. He tried to think about awful things and it worked for a couple of minutes but then, imagines from _that_ night broke their way to his mind. Now as he recalled what had happened in the bathroom, his slow motions as he’d removed Sherlock’s shirt, as he’d held him under the running water, he realized something changed inside him. Seriously changed. Even though during that night, when he had done all those things he didn’t mean them in _that_ way, now his rock hard penis suggested that the pictures were a great turn on for him. Yes, the pictures of his _friend_. Of his _male_ friend. Of his white, soft skin against the tiles. God, he wanted nothing else now, just to throw Sherlock against those dark tiles and fuck him right there...

“Fuck...I’m a really terrible person...” He murmured into his pillow but even if he hated himself for thinking about Sherlock like that, he didn’t even try _not_ to think of him. Closing his eyes, he groaned into the pillow desperately, giving in entirely to the sweet morning daydreams.

A few minutes later he heard his door open up. He stayed put, pretending he was still sleeping, while he listened to the intruder’s steps. _It must be Mrs. Hudson_ , he thought. _She asked for a book yesterday but never took it although it had seemed important to her. Maybe she forgot it and can't wait for me to wake up so she came in for the book now._

But then somebody tore the blanket wildly off of him and he felt the bed sink as if the stranger had climbed up onto his bed. John was pretty sure about one thing: _this_ wasn’t Mrs. Hudson.

He looked back, facing the visitor.

When he saw the determined gray eyes, he turned around completely, leaning up on his elbows.

 

Sherlock was on all fours, creeping towards him like a hunting tiger. Yeah, an almost absolutely naked tiger, who wore only a pair of black boxers.

“Sherlock, what...” Lying between Sherlock’s legs hadn’t really helped him to relieve his previous cravings. Or to talk. His words were only harsh groans.

“I came to thank you...” Sherlock answered the unsaid question. When his eyes were at the same level as the doctor’s he stopped for a few minutes waiting for John to say something, if he didn’t agree with his acts. But John remained in silence and he didn’t know for sure that it was because Watson had the same opinion about raising their relationship to the next stage or if he just couldn’t talk in surprise that he found a half naked consulting detective on his bed as he woke up. He chose to believe in the first possibility.

He lowered his head, and slid his lips over John’s neck, barely touching the skin. He didn’t feel any response, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. But as his lips were over the doctor’s artery he clearly felt it throbbing with a fast beat. Sherlock didn’t linger over there for too long, he moved a bit lower, kissing John’s shoulder, tongue grazing lightly around the pink wound John had received in the war. A tiny, tender kiss onto its center made John gasp. This was all Sherlock needed. His mouth slid further, closing around a nipple, tongue going around it slowly at first but when John grabbed desperately onto the sheets, Sherlock sucked on it, his teeth brushing the sensitive skin. A hand slithered up on the doctor’s side, from his thigh to his shoulder then went down his arm, long fingers curled around John’s clenched palm, caressing him for a few moments and when the lightly shaking fingers opened up, ten fingers were entwined, clasping firmly.

 _This is a dream. This has to be a dream,_ John said to himself. Even if it seemed so real it had to be only a breathtaking, erotic dream, because there is just _no_ _way_ that Sherlock Holmes was in his room right now, sucking and biting his nipples, holding his hand, pinning him to the bed with his whole bodyweight. He fell asleep while daydreaming and was now having a real dream. His hand went to Sherlock’s neck, digging into the soft raven hair, pulling him up.

“Sherlock...” He whispered looking into the gray eyes.

“John, I...” He silenced him with a kiss. There was no need to talk now; words couldn’t express their feelings, not at all.

He licked Sherlock’s lower lip, asking permission to enter his mouth and it was granted him immediately. They kissed each other with passion even if their movements were slow and gentle. With a swift motion John grabbed Sherlock’s waist and rolled them over, now he was on top. He grasped Sherlock’s other hand as well, and slid them over the detective’s head. Their fingers joined; lips never leaving the other, Sherlock arched his back. John ground him into the bed, pushing his hips down.

Sherlock moaned into the kiss as he felt John’s groin rubbing against his lap. He went on with the kiss more fiercely, biting wildly into John’s lips.

 

John woke up sweating. He was in his bed, lying on his stomach. While dreaming he had bitten his own lip, it still hurt. So did his hard erection.

He wasn’t thinking. Pushing off his blanket, he rose from the bed, almost jumping. He ran to the door, tearing it open as he went straight to the living room but no one was there. Without thinking, he burst open Sherlock’s room door and stepped into the room just to find nobody in there as well. Filled with desire he rushed to Sherlock’s bathroom, opening up the door he found himself facing the man he longed for.

 

He saw Sherlock’s eyes narrow uncomprehendingly when his palms came into contact with the white skin over Holmes’ chest and then with a wild motion, he threw Sherlock to the wall, grinding him entirely against the dark tiles. He didn’t stop for even a moment, looking at those intoxicating eyes, he kissed Sherlock. His hand went to his hair, the other was already on his hips, and now, finally he was kissing him, tasting the soft lips _for real_.

Suddenly, two hands grabbed his shoulders pushing him away.

“John, what the hell are you doing!?”

The words affected him like a hit on the head, made him sober. He stepped back, terrified by his previous acts, he didn’t even dare look into Sherlock’s eyes. Talking to the ground he realized that Sherlock wore only a towel, wrapped around his slim waist.

“Jesus...I’m...I’m so sorry...I had...had this dream and then...I woke up and...I don’t know...how...I’m here and...I...God...I-I’ll go now.” He stammered, heading towards the door.

Long, strong fingers twined around his wrist, pulling him back violently and the next moment he felt Sherlock’s hand on his neck, dragging him closer and then the soft lips were on his, biting and sucking passionately.

This time _he_ broke the kiss.

“Why...? I don’t understand why...” He gasped.

“Obvious, isn’t it?” Sherlock said, eyes closed, his forehead against John’s, a smug smile vibrating in the corner of his lips.

“It’s not to me...” John panted.

Sherlock looked at the blue eyes then took John’s hand and slid it right to his groin. John, even through the thick towel, could feel the rock hard penis press to his palm.

“Ahh... Obvious now?”  Sherlock moaned, lolling his head back in pleasure, closing his eyes for a minute.

“God yes!”

John was out of breath, his heart rumbling madly in his chest, blood pulsing in his veins, making him burn on the inside. He tore apart from the kiss, which made his lips bleed lightly, and put his teeth on Sherlock’s neck, and then he caressed the red marks with his tongue, listening to Sherlock’s gasps. He repeated the biting, after sliding his lips a bit lower, than sucked the white skin deeply in, marking it with his own sign, marking Sherlock as _his_. Only his. No one ever would have the right to touch this man beside him.

He felt Sherlock’s hands go under his worn out shirt. Ten fingernails scratched intensely into his back, leaving ten long red lines behind as they moved from his shoulder blades down to his waist. When the fingers reached the top of his boxers they didn’t stop for even a moment, they went under the thin, red fabric and seized his ass, pulling him closer to Sherlock.

Sherlock didn’t let go of John’s ass, he held it steadily while he rubbed his cock against John’s hard erection. His head tilted to the left, giving more access to the doctor, who was refreshing his medical knowledge about how human skin tasted, while moaning furiously either from the hands on his ass or the hardness pressing against his penis.

At the same time Sherlock pushed his hips a bit more fiercely forward and pulled John closer by his ass, while gliding his middle finger between his bottom-cheeks.

“Fucking god, Sherlock!” John cried, and grabbed Sherlock’s neck to hold him steady while he almost raped his mouth with his tongue.

“You really want to be fucked, don’t you Sherlock?” The doctor’s voice harsh with threat. “But you have to wait for that a little longer...”

“Why would I? _Obviously_ , you are more than ready to fulfill my needs...”

“Oh yes, I am. But I have other plans...” John smiled, looking into the now dark grey-blue eyes. With a quick motion he tore the towel from Sherlock’s waist, then falling to his knees, he took the already wet cock into his mouth.

“Jes-...Ahhh! John!” Sherlock yelled towards the ceiling as his head fell back from the enjoyment. He expected his body to become numb from the pleasure he felt, but on the contrary, he happened to sense everything in his environment. The cold tiles behind him, pressing against his ass, making goose-bumps from his feet to his head. A gentle hand on his thigh, fingertips caressing the inner side of his leg lightly as if they were feathers. Another hand on his wet cock, seizing him firmly but slowly as a tongue playfully circled around the tip of his penis.

He was moaning loudly but he didn’t care, and even if he cared he couldn’t control himself anymore, John’s lips made him forget about everything he was once sure about. He felt like his body wanted to scream with every touch John made, and he indeed screamed when the hot lips finally went around his erection and John sucked his cock in deeply. He almost went crazy from the sucking sounds which escaped from between John’s lips as his lightly rough tongue slit over and over his hypersensitive skin.

“John! Oh, dear John!” He managed to groan, between the fast panting.

John looked up and moaned at the sight. Harsh vibration broke up from his throat, and it went up along Sherlock’s cock, making the detective almost lose what little control he still had. Sherlock looked gorgeous as the dark tiles contrasted with his pale skin, a hand over his forehead, his eyes closed tightly, his cheeks flushed from the pleasure, his mouth also open, he was breathing hard and fast.

John watched him panting and he found incredibly erotic all the little noises Sherlock made. All the whimpers and the moans, the wild groans when his teeth went gently over the velvet skin and he thanked God or to Someone Up There who took care of Sherlock Holmes and helped him get better, because he knew, without Sherlock he’d be no-one now. Since he had gotten to know him, he needed Sherlock and Sherlock needed him.

He grabbed Holmes’ leg and put it over his own shoulder. He held him with a hand at his waist while his other hand went to Sherlock’s ass, his middle finger found its way between the bottom-cheeks and with a swift motion he pushed the finger up into Sherlock’s ass.

“Fuck! John...Fuck!” John heard him swearing and he knew the other man was already almost over the edge.

Sherlock stood on tiptoe as a second finger went inside him. He moaned uncontrollably, continuously, while he breathed very fast. He gripped John’s hand at his waist and seized it really hard.

John moaned again, while Sherlock’s throbbing erection was still in his mouth, and he felt Sherlock shiver, he felt the goose-bumps on his skin. He started moving faster, sucking harder, not taking his eyes off Sherlock. His fingers were moving in and out with the same speed as his mouth was moving up and down over the wet, silky skin.

“John...!” Sherlock said his name again, but it was merely a faint, rugged whisper. As Sherlock looked down and the burning grey eyes met with the ocean blue ones, John pushed his finger deeper inside and drove Sherlock’s long cock totally into his hot mouth, his lips enclosing the base of the penis.

Throwing his head back, Sherlock cried out loudly and lustfully, his scream filled the bathroom, and echoed between the walls for a while, his hand shot to John’s hair, gripped it tightly, he needed something he could clasp into. His back arched away from the tiles, only his head and his clenched fist touched the wall.

When his nerves calmed and not everything looked white anymore he looked down.

John was panting hard, his forehead leaned against Sherlock’s stomach, and he gave tiny kisses to the wet skin. When he felt gentle hands brushing in his hair he looked up. Caressing Sherlock’s side, he stood up.

Holmes kissed him softly once, then again. A minute later, the kiss was rather brutal and animalistic again.

“John...?”

“Yeah Sherlock? I’m here...”

“Yes John, a few minutes ago you gave me the absolute obvious evidence of your presence...” Sherlock smiled. “But John, I think you are a wearing bit too much clothing right now, don’t you?”

John shook his head lightly.

“You always just complain... Why don’t you _do_ something about it instead of just talking?” He asked teasing.

The next moment he felt himself pushed against the wall.

Sherlock squatted in front of him, hands on his sides. The bottom of his shirt was between his thumbs and pointing fingers, so as Sherlock was raising the cloth, four fingertips caressed his skin tenderly.

As Sherlock removed the shirt, he placed soft kisses first to the projecting hipbones, and then he lightly licked the delicious flesh under it. When he heard the moans from above, he moved upward, still exploring John with his lips. He revealed more and more of the doctor’s stomach and he didn’t hesitate to taste it. He bit into the soft flesh under John’s belly then gave a tender kiss to the red marks. He moved inch by inch, as slowly as possible, torturing John in the sweetest way.

When John’s hand went to his hair and gripped in his curls, he couldn’t help but think of how much he wanted to taste John already. Not just his lips, or his nipples, or his chest but his _cock_. He wanted to hold him between his lips, teasing him with his tongue, making him scream his name. He wanted that hand in his hair to force him to take John’s erection deeper, as deep as humanly possible. He wanted to release the strong soldier in John, that lost part of him that had disappeared when he came back from Afghanistan. That part, which stormed into his bathroom and threw him to the wall, giving him one fucking kiss, which alone was enough to make him hard as steel.

He licked and sucked the penis through the black fabric and he felt his own arousal growing again.

John’s fingers tightened in his hair but instead of pushing him towards his erection, he pulled him back then up. Sherlock obediently rose up, facing John.

“Finish what you’ve started!” John commanded after a long, wild, ass-gripping kiss.

Sherlock’s hands went back to John’s side and raised the shirt up a bit faster than before. John, panting harder and harder, looked in his eyes. For a brief moment their glance connected then Sherlock couldn’t help but stare down at the revealing, bare skin.

John lifted his arms over his head, his muscles tensed by the motion. Sherlock tried to control himself and not to lean right to the doctor’s nipples and flesh, biting and sucking. He did what he was told to do. He removed the shirt, while only caressing John with his palms and eyes. He felt it a bit ironic that three days ago _he_ stood at this same wall, with this same position, weak and ill and now, he was here again, undressing John, and he wasn’t ill anymore. He felt the strength burning inside him, pulsing in his veins, forcing him to act feral, tearing down the only thing which prevented him from tasting the man in front of him.

He slid his hands down on John’s still raised arms, looking into the blue eyes, he slithered his fingers over to the doctor’s heavily rising and falling chest, his thumbs running over the hardened nipples. He explored every inch on John’s upper half, caressing, smoothing.

Gently. Slowly.

He was going to go crazy.

John leaned forward and kissed him lightly. Lips brushing his, a tongue peeping into his mouth, tasting the wetness inside then pulled back immediately. But Sherlock didn’t let him go too far, he was fed up with ‘slow’, ‘gentle’ and ‘light’. He wanted _fast_ , _wild_ and _hard_. He bit John’s lower lip, and when his mouth parted a bit from the pain, he used the opportunity and thrust his tongue inside. Blocking the doctor’s mouth with his own, he didn’t even let him breathe. He glided his left hand over the hard erection pushed against his groin. He skimmed it up and down for once, and then went under the tight boxers; fingers enfolded John, stroking him forcefully.

“Ahh!! God damn you, Sherlock!” John moaned into his mouth.

“Too hard?” He asked, while his motions remained as powerful as before.

“Never...” John moaned into Sherlock’s mouth then pushed away from the wall. With a hand in Sherlock’s hair and one on his back, feeling dizzy from the fierce kiss he earned with his answer, he reeled towards Sherlock’s bed, pulling him along. His boxers fell to the floor somewhere around the threshold; right before five long fingers gripped his shaft tightly, moving fast.

He stopped at the side of the bed, he didn’t want this feeling to end, he didn’t want Sherlock’s hand to disappear or his lips to stop kissing. They stood there for a few seconds, but then Sherlock let go of his cock, his hand went to John’s ass, gripped it and he started rubbing his hardness against the doctor’s, like he was already driving into him.

John’s mind went blank from the sensation; he pushed Sherlock down to the bed and climbed over him. Biting the detective’s neck, he whispered into his ear.

“On your knees, Sherlock. Now.”

Sherlock turned around but he didn’t get time to kneel up. John grabbed him by his waist and pulled him up. His ass crashing into John’s erection made him moan softly.

Bending over Sherlock, John leaned with one hand on the bed. Kissing the back of the detective’s head he slid a hand over Sherlock’s back, stopping at his shoulder.

“I’m going to be gentle...” He murmured.

Sherlock, tuning half around, cupped his face and kissed him passionately. He moaned one word into John’s mouth, which drove the kind doctor mad.

“Hard.” Hearing this, John positioned himself, then, after a slight hesitation, he pushed in.

“AHH!” Sherlock whimpered as the thick manhood thrust into him. His fingers clutched onto the sheets as the pain slashed through his body. His breathing became fast and irregular.

He felt the pain only until John started moving. The friction caused by the doctor’s cock sliding lazily in and out of him, made him shiver all over; pleasurable groans took over for the painful whimpers.

He heard John’s ragged breathing and his fingers digging into his waist, then one hand slithered down over his hipbone, then to his loins, seizing his erection.

“This is good, isn’t it Sherlock...”

“Faster...” Sherlock demanded, not really knowing which motions he wanted faster.

John increased the speed in both places, but his moving became quickly erratic. He let go of Sherlock’s hip and his hand went to the detective’s chest, pulling him up to himself.

Both of them cried out loud when Sherlock lowered himself onto his shaft, taking him entirely in. John leaned into his nape and Sherlock reached back, his fingers tangling in the short, light-brown hair. John caressed his skin with his tongue, his fingers teasing the hard nipple over and over, while his rhythmic thrusting caused more pleasure for both of them than they could bear.

His thumb pressed firmly over the velvet skin, exploring every throbbing vein, went over the tip several times. He felt Sherlock’s cock getting harder and harder under his touch, precum leaking out from the tip. With his index finger he drew tiny circles over the head of the detective’s long penis, moistening his fingertip, then he brought his hand to his mouth and, as Sherlock watched, he licked it clean, then placed his own finger into his mouth, sucking it.

A moment later, Sherlock’s finger was in front of him, shining from wetness. He grabbed his hand, and ran his tongue over it deliberately then slid it into his mouth, sucking it hard. Sherlock gasped as the wet warmness surrounded him and as the doctor’s fingers went around his erection again.

John, taking his earlobe into his mouth, slowed down his motions; he wanted this to take forever. Sherlock’s hand was still in his hair, but the other moved lower, around the doctor’s hand. Sherlock made John’s palm clasp his penis firmly, while small, erotic gasps left his mouth.

Watson caressed the detective’s chest, his hand wandering from inch to inch, fingertips exploring old scars, palm running over tensed muscles.

He was kneeling between Sherlock’s legs; his left hand slithered downwards, stroking the inner side of the long thigh. He pushed his own knees a bit apart, forcing Sherlock to open up his legs a bit more so he could drive into him deeply.

“Ah, God! John!” Sherlock panted for air as the long shaft pushed into him forcefully, thrusting more intensely than before. He quickened their speed; he wanted more. He wanted all.

He rubbed his index finger around his cock again then reached his hand out to John, watching his reaction. He took it again into his mouth, eyes closed, pleasurable moans escaping from between his lips, while his tongue was swirling around it, teeth biting roughly into the wet skin, scratching sharply. When John was done with the finger, he let go of the detective’s thick manhood and lifted his hand up, ten fingers joined together. Sherlock felt John bringing their fingers closer to his mouth, then he felt the doctor giving tiny kisses to his fingertips.

He was surprised by the gentle touch. This, what they were doing during the last hour, this was just sex, it was just about their bodies, about satisfaction. But this tiny motion changed everything because it meant much more than pure sex, it carried need, love and other sentimental feelings with it, feelings which Sherlock couldn’t name. Not at all. He only wanted this, which he craved for a really long time, Watson thrusting into him, just sex, only satisfaction. Not love or caring. Just a body, not a soul.

His eyes shot open when he felt John kiss the middle of his palm.

 _Love_.

No, he didn’t need love...

...Did he?

He closed his eyes and forced his mind to recall the past three days.

John shouting at him to stay at home.

John again, ordering him to bed, then examining him, concern on his face.

The night with the terrible seizures. John Watson was with him, helping him breathe in the bed and under the cold shower. He _felt_ again the gentle arms embracing him.

John was with him not only because he was a great detective, or because of his clever mind, but because of _him_. Actually _him_ , his personality, his mind, his bad habits, they all mattered because he was there every time Sherlock got himself in trouble, every time he needed John, he was there without a word and he helped.

Even when he was ill, pathetic and powerless, the great doctor didn’t go away, he stayed with him caring about him.

 _His friend_.

He felt John stop because while thinking he had stopped his movement as well.

Not just _friend_.

 _Lover_.

“Everything alright Sherlock?” He heard his voice, deep, rugged, hoarse, still caring.

 _Love_ – he tasted the word.

Because what is love? Either just chemistry, which John and he _obviously_ had already. Or the need for someone who accepts us the way we are. Who doesn’t want to change us. Who doesn’t want to make us better or different but somehow still changes us, and makes us better, without comprehending their actions.

“Do you want to change me?” he asked, looking back.

“What?” Came the uncomprehending reaction.

“Do you want to change me? Make me into a better person? Fix me?”

“Sherlock, what the hell are you talking about _right_ _now_? We are kinda in the middle of something, you know...”

“Just answer the question! Do you...”

“No! Why would I? You are a great person, Sherlock, there is no part of you which should be ‘ _fixed’_...Well... You are a bit ego-centric and self-satisfied but I can bear with that...” John said smiling, kissing his neck.

“Kiss me again.” Sherlock asked and John obeyed. Their slow, tender kiss, soon became wild and raw.

John moved again into him, one hard thrust and he was moaning loudly, eyes closed, mouth open, and dry from excitement.

Another thrust, this one slow. John pulled almost entirely out of him just to push back with a swift motion, making Sherlock almost fall forward.

Gasping and panting he joined in John’s rhythm.

The doctor gave one last kiss to his hand then his fingers went down to his painfully throbbing erection seizing him hard and fast; with the same speed he was driving into him. John’s teeth bit into his shoulder and Sherlock’s fingernails drew red marks on the doctor’s thigh, leaving little, scarlet half-moons behind.

If a strong arm weren’t holding him, Sherlock would probably have fallen forward from the hard thrusts with John was shoving into him. But John’s arm held him steady, pulling him a bit back, arching their backs.

“Ah...Sherlock...” he heard his name as only a rugged whisper nothing more.

“John...more...faster please... _harder_...” he moaned back, driving back and forth between John’s hand and groin, not even knowing where he was anymore because of the pleasurable sensations the doctor’s long, thick penis made him feel, while pushing into him with uncontrolled movements.

John’s hips slashed forward, he went deeper into Sherlock as he couldn’t hold back anything, he wasn’t in control of his body anymore. With his left hand, he leaned back on the bed, his back arched backward. Sherlock followed him, bending back as much as he could, inclining to the doctor’s chest, he groaned widely.

“Fuck Sherlock...I can't...” John murmured before he put his teeth onto Sherlock’s shoulder then to his neck, sucking in the soft flesh.

“Don’t stop...Ah, yes, John...Ah, damn...” Sherlock managed to form some words, but that was all. John, pushing up into his ass, his hand on his cock, as the wet tip emerged from between the tight thumb and index finger.

“Scream my name, Sherlock...When you come...Scream my...name... _Sherlock_!” The last word only a rough whisper right at his ear, hot breath against his skin, a final, feral thrust, fingers enclosing his shaft resolutely...

“JOHN!” He screamed, and he felt John’s cry as well, he felt the doctor coming into him, while moaning and gasping, but his hand didn’t stop, it went on until the last white drop streamed down over the talented fingers.

Pulling out from Sherlock, John bent back on the bed, pulling Sherlock down covering himself with the man like a blanket. They rested like this for a few minutes until they saw colors again and heard other sounds, which weren’t just their own heartbeat.

“Damn Sherlock...this was...this was amazing...”

“Indeed, it was, John...” He answered resting his head against John’s rising and falling chest.

Then he turned around, and saw John licking the last remains of the opal wetness from his hand. He cuddled up between the doctor’s legs, chest to chest, face to face and looked him in the eye.

“I think we need a shower. A long one.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really hope you liked it...  
> ...Would anyone be interested in a shower-sex-scene?

**Author's Note:**

> Anyone interested in the next chapter? :)


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